


Weird Wednesday

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Reality, Confusion, Frottage, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, OOC John, OOC Sherlock, Oral Sex, Sexuality Crisis, WTF did I just write?, cases, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:42:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up to find himself in an alternate universe where plain-looking John is the demisexual, talented consulting detective and ethereally beautiful Sherlock is the heterosexual, former soldier and doctor… and the detective is in the midst of seducing his blogger! The resulting escapade leaves the brilliant John questioning his sexuality- and his loyalty to his Sherlock Holmes. EXTREMELY loosely based on Freaky Friday- in that it isn't stupid. I hope.</p><p>Asgardian: For the record, I totally hate this title. It makes this piece seem childish and silly when it's actually serious as F&*%.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER

Hello all, I am Vinny’s Asguardian. Since Vincent Meoblinn is such a fairy (shut up, Vinny, your muse is Navi) that he gets all butthurt when people comment, I am now his buffer. All stories are posted WITH VINNY’S PERMISSION. Questions will be forwarded if they don’t show that you didn’t read the story at all. Negative comments (not including corrections) will be met with a request that you collect [a pair of balls](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b6/Ball-pit-28C3.jpg) from the pit and show yourself to the [search button](search?edit_search=true&utf8=%E2%9C%93&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Bshow_restricted%5D=false). If you are not old enough (meaning you cut yourself after each chapter) to handle angst, the occasional dub/noncon, plot twists, or psychological trauma, just go find a fluffy story written by someone else and rock yourself for a bit. It will all be okay (pets hair gently while rolling eyes).

Neither Vinny nor I own ANY of these characters or the companies associated with them. We do not make money off these fics and will not accept offers of funds. Prompts can be sent [HERE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/?tag=6.+prompts/suggestions). Corrections can be sent [HERE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/?tag=7.+spelling/grammar+corrections). Check out Vinny’s [blog](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/) for more stories, or his [facebook](https://www.facebook.com/vinny.meoblinn) for updates, and [tumblr](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/eychloii) for story-related pics and fanboying. Requests for me can be posted to whichever story you are on atm.

***

 

It was overwhelming. John was fairly certain he’d never _ever_ felt such exquisite pleasure running up and down his body. His mind was overwhelmed, blocking out all thought as the only thing in the room became the body above his and his need to press against it. His hands grasped a plush arse and something hot and hard pressed against his cock. They writhed together, their bodies moving as one in an ancient dance that deserved so many more exquisitely beautiful names than it had been assigned.

 _Love_ , John’s mind supplied, _This is love. It’s so much more important than the physical, but I can give him the physical and he might just love me back._

_Wait. Him? He?_

John’s eyes flew open and he instinctively rolled, pinning his would-be rapist beneath him by their shoulders. The first thing his sex-addled brain took in was that it was Sherlock pinned beneath him, his face flushed in pleasure, eyes closed as he came hard between them where John’s movements had sat him down with his bollocks pressed against the man’s purpled cock. His mouth was open in a silent scream, and it took him several seconds to get a gasping breath in, his fingers clawing at John’s hips as he tried to return his mind to some semblance of sanity. The second thing John noticed was that the bed sheets were black. They should be white. Sherlock had black sheets, not John. John had _white_ sheets. Which meant they were in _Sherlock’s_ room. Why was John in Sherlock’s room _frotting_ with him?!

Then Sherlock’s eyes drifted open and John found himself pinned as surely as Sherlock was, but in a far different way. Those eyes were filled with devotion and wonder, amazed by John having pleasured him so intensely.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, “My gods, you were right, you brilliant thing. I never thought… never _imagined_ … Damn. Here, let me.”

John found himself gently rolled over, hands stroking tenderly along his sides while those ethereal blue-green-grey _eyes_ continued to pin him down with their worshipful gaze. Full, hesitant lips leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his before becoming more sure and pressing firmly into an intense open-mouthed kiss. John felt a calloused hand wrap around his prick and begin to stroke the hardness back into it. _The calluses… they’re in the wrong place. That’s not from violin playing, that’s from holding a gun and exercising._

“You weren’t joking about being demisexual, were you? This isn’t some experiment?” Sherlock asked, his tone worried as he kissed his way down John’s neck, “I won’t forgive you if this is a jest.”

“It’s not a joke,” John strangled out, because there was no way _in hell_ he would ever play a prank like this on someone.

John’s body was betraying him. Arousal overwhelming his thinking process, muddling his mind in ways that made him writhe like a virgin in Sherlock’s now confident grasp. Sherlock had slid down his chest; nervously lapping at his nipples in a way most women didn’t think to try. It was _gorgeous_. Sherlock was using his own semen as lubricant and John was fairly certain that _nothing_ could feel better than this did.

“It’s a bit odd, being reversed like this,” Sherlock spoke softly, and John wondered what on earth he meant, “But it’s not so uncomfortable- stroking someone else’s cock. I think… I’d like to… can I?”

John nodded his head frantically, because Sherlock’s breath was dancing around the head of his cock and if the man was even _hinting_ at sucking him off John wasn’t about to interfere- sexuality be damned!

“I’ve never done this,” Sherlock whispered, his tongue coming out to flick his throbbing cockhead, “But I’ve had it done to me enough times to… well, just tell me if I do something you don’t like.”

Sherlock took John’s cockhead into his mouth and ran his tongue around it, dipping beneath the foreskin until John’s vision fizzled out with pleasure. He was so _close_ , but Sherlock pulled away again.

“What am I saying?” Sherlock chuckled, “Of _course_ you’ll tell me if I do something you don’t… _umph!”_

John had grabbed Sherlock by his curls and pushed him down onto his cock, overwhelmed by how unbearably sensitive he was. He hadn’t felt this overwhelmed by those nerve endings since he was a teenager getting his first blow job. It was as if he’d _never_ been touched there by another person- perhaps not even by himself- in his entire life. And then Sherlock was bobbing and suckling, and it was slower than he would have liked but it was _so good_ , and he really shouldn’t try to speed him up because he’d said he wasn’t experienced but bugger it all! More! More! _More!_

Sherlock groaned when John tangled his hands in those gorgeous curls and started forcing him up and down on his cock at the speed he wanted, gasping as he bucked up into his hot, wet mouth and firm hand. He lost suction for a moment or two, and then started it up again just in time for John’s eyes to roll back in his head and the most intense orgasm he’d ever experienced to leave him screaming in pleasure. His vision whited out, his ears rang, his breath refused to come back to him as he lay there panting in overwhelmed bliss. Somewhere nearby he heard Sherlock spitting and the sound of metal clanking on the floor ( _spat my semen into a trashcan)_ and worried he’d done something wrong.

“Not good?” John panted, as the world came back into perspective slowly.

“A bit rough, but not a problem,” Sherlock replied, “I expected you to go off like that after what you told me so I had my hand stopping you from choking me. That really was your first time? With _anyone_? Never mind, I can tell it was. Er… not that it was bad, just that you were so… passionate. I’m not used to you being passionate about anything that doesn’t involve a double homicide at least!”

John stared at Sherlock in confusion. That made no sense. Of course John had been with people before. Sherlock _knew_ that; had probably deduced how many, how often, and how sincerely they’d loved- or hated- each other. And why would John be passionate about a double homicide? That _was_ Sherlock’s area, not all this rubbish pillow talk!

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock sighed, “You hate repeating yourself and I’m being _dull_. Sorry. I’m just… a bit shocked. I’ve always seen myself as straight- you know that- but you saying you loved me… I guess I’ve always been just a _bit_ in love with you. I don’t know, John. I _want_ this to work, but I’m worried I won’t be able to give you what you need.”

Sherlock’s hand stroked John’s cheek and John felt himself positively _melt_ into the covers. He whimpered Sherlock’s name like a wanton thing and those lips pressed against his, hard and demanding. John grasped at him, pulling him close as a _need_ to have their bodies pressed together overwhelmed him.

_It’s just oxytocin. That’s all. Oxytocin._

Except it wasn’t. He’d felt this way only once before and had his heart royally broken, and here he was feeling it for _Sherlock_. He was _straight_ damn it. Not gay! Definitely _not gay_! Except, Sherlock had called him a demisexual? Had said he’d called _himself_ a demisexual? What the hell was a demisexual? It was important. A clue. He had to research it immediately…

“Your mind’s gone off,” Sherlock sighed, breaking the kiss, “It’s fine. I know you can’t stay focused on me forever. Go on. Go fiddle about with experiments or murders or whatever else you’ve got floating around in that brilliant head of yours.”

John scrambled out of the bed and bolted for the sitting room where he knew one of their laptops would be. It wasn’t until he was halfway there that he recalled he was naked and covered in spunk. He turned in alarm to get _something_ to cover him, and saw Sherlock standing there, towel around his waist, with a bemused expression on his face and a second towel in his hand.

“Grabbed it from the bathroom. Go on and clean yourself up. I already clean enough stuff around here without cleaning up your own person, majesty,” Sherlock teased, his lopsided grin warm and tender, “I’ll put the kettle on. Are you going to eat this morning?”

John opened his mouth to say ‘of course I’m going to eat, you’re the one who usually doesn’t’, but before he could his mind raced off when he noticed a laptop sitting on the kitchen counter. John grabbed it, rubbing at the mess on his groin with one hand while he lopped off to his chair.

“Don’t get come on my laptop!” Sherlock snapped as he headed back to the bedroom to dress, “I’m making food. You burned calories back there so you’re eating. Like it or not.”

“I haven’t got _time_ to eat!” John argued, “I’m busy!”

_Wait… what did I just say?_

Except it was true. John’s mind was racing ahead of himself, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he accessed first the dictionary ( _A **demisexual** is a person who does not experience sexual attraction unless they form a strong emotional connection with someone. It's more commonly seen in but by no means confined to romantic relationships. The term demisexual comes from the orientation being "halfway between" sexual and asexual.) _ then his blog ( _Sherlock’s blog? Sherlock has a blog? Talking about_ my _cases? What the hell is this?)_ then Sherlock’s website ( _My website? The Science Of Deduction by John Watson? What the fuck is going on?!)_ and finally looking up to see Sherlock putting a cup of tea and some eggs and rashers at his elbow.

“Have I been at this for long enough for you to cook?”

“You usually are,” Sherlock chuckled, smiling easily as he sank into his chair, “Gone off in your head, then? Lucky I didn’t leave, you’d be yelling for something in a moment.”

“Is this what you feel like?” John asked without checking what he was saying first, “Does your mind go off in so many directions at once that you lose track of your surroundings if something doesn’t bring you out?”

Sherlock sighed, “No, John, that doesn’t happen to me, but it’s interesting to hear you describe it. Is that why you call my mind _placid_?”

John had spotted the morning paper and dove for it without answering Sherlock. The headline. It was only partially visible, but the first half _had to be…_

“There’s been a murder in Sussex, Sherlock,” John stated.

“Well, you’ve got to put pants on for that at the very least,” Sherlock stated blandly, “Though I _would_ recommend a shower and a full wardrobe.”

John blinked in confusion, then glanced down and realized he was still sitting there with a towel bunched up in his lap.

“Bloody hell!” John swore, shoving the laptop into Sherlock’s hands and bolting for the bathroom, “Of all the inconvenient…!”

Sherlock was laughing at him, but he was just too eager to get into the shower and out again to scold him. His brain was rushing ahead again. If they went to the Yard they’d see Lestrade and he might be able to shed some light onto whatever was going on. He was most assuredly going to call them soon as the article had stated that he was stumped. Again.

John rolled his eyes and then caught his reflection in the mirror. His face was twisted in a frustrated grimace, his eyes cold, his hair disheveled from sex and decidedly _not his main concern_.

“Oh my gods,” John whispered as he stared at himself and watched his face morph into a look of amusement and interest, “I’m Sherlock. I’m Sherlock’s brain with John Watson’s memories and body. Neat!”

 _How_ this had happened was a complete mystery, one John was far more interested in solving than a silly old _murder_. He’d question Lestrade, then Mycroft, then Molly, and from there he’d be able to extrapolate…

On and on John’s mind raced as he showered and dressed automatically, being stopped by the door so Sherlock could re-button his shirt for him and tuck it into his trousers with a fond- and exasperated- expression on his face.

“Well, let’s go then,” Sherlock smiled, but then grasped his arm, “Just a tick, though. I just want a bit of reassurance…”

“Sherlock,” John whined, “I’m on a _case!”_

 _Though not the one you_ think _I’m on._

“If this is going to happen, John,” Sherlock growled, his deep voice making John’s very satisfied cock twitch eagerly, “You’re going to have to make time for me- and _space_ for me- in that huge head of yours. I just want to hear you say it again. You aren’t in this for my looks?”

Sherlock looked so worried, so anxious, that it brought John crashing down to earth and he stopped his fidgeting to give him a sincere look. That full bottom lip was being nibbled and John felt an urge to lean forward and rescue it; so he did so with a hungry kiss.

“You _are_ beautiful, Sherlock,” John breathed when he stepped back, and noticed an instant of hurt flash in his eyes, “But that’s not why I kissed you just now.”

“Why, then?”

“You know this isn’t my area,” John replied, feeling so uncomfortable with the conversation that he wished he could crawl out of his skin. He was squirming again, this time with anxiety. What did Sherlock _want_ to hear? John couldn’t even imagine.

“You know this bothers me, John,” Sherlock sighed, “Not just switching up my sexuality- that I can manage because it’s _you_ \- but being wanted for only my looks has been a damn bother for years. Yes, I know, most men would be envious, but I’m sick of women jumping all over me only to realize they only wanted my body and not _me._ I don’t want that to be the case with you.”

“It isn’t,” John stated confidently. _Because_ I’m _the straight one… at least I was. I was also the one with experience before… and they always fell for my personality and then told me later I wasn’t sexy enough for them. Gods, what a reversal this all is!_

Sherlock’s face broke into a smile that reached every inch of it, his eyes lighting up and his skin glowing with a soft blush. For just a moment John’s racing brain stuttered to a halt in the face of all that _emotion_ , but it wasn’t to feel disgust by it as _his_ Sherlock had often expressed. It was to stare into the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. Sherlock Holmes looking at him as if he were the center of the universe.

 _Is this how my Sherlock feels? My real Sherlock Holmes? Does he find emotion disgusting and annoying? He’s said so, but I never really believed it until now- until I was feeling it for him. Except I don’t feel that when_ this _Sherlock smiles at me. I feel alive. I feel in love. I feel accepted and understood. Why? How? What is going_ on _right now?_

“We should go,” John found himself whispering breathlessly.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, and opened the door for him to guide him out it with a hand at the small of his back.

“Such a gentleman,” John teased.

“Such a prick,” Sherlock teased back.

“You’d know,” John smirked wickedly as he hailed a cab, “You had it in your mouth earlier.”

Sherlock blushed and stammered adorably and John slipped into the cab with a silent chuckle. This was _fun!_


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade was no help, especially since there _was_ no Lestrade; at least not a DI Lestrade. There was a DI Holmes, and it was positively unnerving to sit there and watch Sherlock banter cheerfully with Mycroft about sports (for some reason John couldn’t remember his own team), while the man sat behind a desk in regular clothes. When Mycroft spoke to John, however, his tone was quite different.

“Alright then, John,” Mycroft stated brusquely, “What have you got for me? This murder is a bit off, isn’t it? At least an 8.”

“Dull. I have a different mystery to solve,” John replied, still studying the man’s facial expressions curiously. It was odd to see Mycroft making faces that _didn’t_ involve superiority or disappointment.

“John,” Sherlock sighed, “Just help him out. He’s good to us.”

_Well, if you insist._

“The crime scene?”

“I can take you there, but it’s not fresh. Anderson’s been over it.”

“Damn. Why didn’t you text me?”

“I didn’t know things were odd until I got this letter in the mail when I got back to my office this morning,” Mycroft replied, passing John an envelope.

John studied the envelope first ( _standard paper, printed locally, watermark shows company is Hilton Cubitt brand)_ then slipped the paper out ( _same brand, printer quality)_ and frowned at the various people glued to the front, all of them in various dancing poses. They appeared to be from a magazine, but whatever rag it was John was unfamiliar with it. In fact, he was more than a bit surprised that he _was_ familiar with the brand of paper!

“Sherlock?” John asked.

‘They’re all famous movie stars,” Sherlock replied instantly, “Some American, some English… I think this fellow is an Italian star. Some of these are from are 80’s. Why use such old movies?”

“Perhaps the particular poses couldn’t be found elsewhere. Look here. The same picture twice in a row, and it isn’t a copy. Someone had to buy a rag that had that same pose _twice_.”

“It wouldn’t be _too_ hard to find, despite it’s age. That’s a famous pose from _Dirty Dancing_ ,” Sherlock explained.

“ _Dirty Dancing_? What’s dirty about it?”

“They moved suggestively.”

“You mean provocatively.”

“Yes, but with each other, so it looked a bit like vertical sex.”

“Repulsive,” John replied, and he _felt_ it, but he vaguelly recalled _liking_ that movie once upon a time now that Sherlock had mentioned it. And sex. And dancing. The hell was this?

“To you, I suppose,” Sherlock snorted, then gave him an odd look and whipped out his phone.

John’s text alarm went off and Mycroft snorted, “Are you two really texting each other in front of me like teenagers? Would you like to share that with the class, John?”

**You liked what we did earlier. S**

“I doubt you’d find it interesting,” John replied.

**I liked it because it was you. JW**

Sherlock’s eyes flickered with warmth and he stood up and crossed the room to keep himself composed. While he stared out the window John looked over the rest of the case file. Mycroft was looking back and forth between them curiously, but unlike the _real_ Mycroft- the one from outside the Twilight Zone- this one was as astute as Lestrade.

“There isn’t much to go on here,” John frowned, “I need to review the scene.”

“I can take you there now, just let me collect Molly,” Mycroft replied, standing and walking to the door.

“Molly?” John asked, even as Mycroft shouted for her.

“Yeah?” Molly asked, her tone a bit disrespectful.

“We’re going. Try to be nice, yeah?”

John stood up and stared at one Molly Hooper, pissed off and disgusted sergeant.

_Fuck._

“Well, hello Freak. Come to save us from our ignorance again?” Molly sneered.

“It’s good to know you’re finally accepting it,” John replied automatically.

“Just try not to get in my way,” Molly growled.

They left in Mycroft’s (Lestrade’s?) car, driving about fifteen minutes before they got out at a nondescript apartment building in a shite part of town. Mycroft took them quickly up the stairs and John found himself darting around the room as his brain rushed ahead of him. He was soon blurting out conclusions and had found more dancing figures pasted inside the closet where the woman had hung herself.

“And the return address for the note was this apartment?” Sherlock reiterated, causing John a bit of annoyance.

“Shut _up_ ,” John snapped, “If you must comment, at least stick to your usual platitudes. I’m trying to _concentrate_ and your tedious questions are like nails on a chalkboard.”

“Sorry, John, you’re absolutely right. Let’s see… have I used _brilliant_ yet today?”

“No, you haven’t. Perhaps if you went alphabetically it would be easier to keep track of?”

“Well, in that case I’ll start with _arse_. Then brilliant arse. Then caustic arse… is this too redundant?” Sherlock asked, fuming from the corner he was standing in.

John opened his mouth to tell Sherlock to leave and then stopped himself. That was what Sherlock in his universe would do. He’d freak out at John, but John knew why Sherlock was snipping at him. Sherlock was hurt and tired of being called stupid by someone who was so much smarter than him that it shouldn’t have hurt, but it _did_ because he cared about him and his opinion.

“I’m… sorry, John.”

“What?” Sherlock asked in surprise.

“I’m sorry. I was just frustrated and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I really do need silence, though. My brain works so fast sometimes I might miss a bit of information if I’m distracted by input from elsewhere. Digging it back up later might mean finding a clue too late.”

“I see,” Sherlock nodded, “I’m sorry too, then. Should I wait outside?”

“No, just… silence.”

Sherlock nodded and John went back to work and soon was rushing out with the two men and Molly hot on his heels.

“What did you figure out?” Mycroft shouted in frustration.

“It’s a code!” John shouted back up, “We need to find more, I need to know _everything_ about Elsie Cubitt!”

They followed him out the door and he hailed a taxi, Sherlock popping in before it could leave without him.

“Cubitt? Why is that familiar.”

“Hilton Cubitt is a company that creates paper products. Everything from toilet paper to printing paper to-“

“Magazine paper?”

“Precisely. The paper the figures were pasted to was Cubitt paper. Elsie Cubitt is the wife of Hilton Cubitt himself, but why would she kill herself- if that were what happened- in a dingy flat in the middle of Bumblefuck?”

“Bumblefuck?” Sherlock asked, “Are you feeling yourself? I’m not complaining, but that apology back there wasn’t your usual behavior, either.”

“I’m _not_ feeling myself,” John replied. _I feel like you, you are acting like me, Mycroft is acting like Lestrade, and Lestrade is…_ Their cab turned into a parking garage and headed down to the bottom level while John sighed in frustration.“I wondered when he’d turn up.”

Except, it wasn’t Lestrade as John had suspected. It was Harry. Harriet Watson was the bloody British Government, standing there leaning on a brolly with a smug look on her face.

John left the cab and strode forward angrily, “What do you want _Harry_.”

“I’ve asked you not to call me that,” Harriet replied, “We can be adults today, can’t we John?”

“I don’t know, can we Sherlock?”

“It’s looking up today, actually,” Sherlock agreed, smirking a bit, “I got an apology out of him earlier.”

John spun around; outrage making his body so stiff his neck cracked, and stared daggers at Sherlock’s amused grin.

“That isn’t…” John started, only to be cut off.

“Well, you _are_ being adult today! Will wonders never cease? Holmes- the other Holmes, obviously- is missing some information. I’m going to take you to the primary crime scene. It’s in another jurisdiction, but we need this handled quickly and efficiently. Do you _think_ you can manage that?” Harriet asked, her tone patronizing.

“Of course,” John scoffed.

“Sherlock,” Harriet asked, eyes glued on John still, “Has he been using? He seems off.”

John sputtered in indignation, “I’ve never used once in my life!”

That was met with a cold glare from Harriet and alarmed silence from Sherlock.

_Oops. If I’m Sherlock then I’m an ex-addict. Shit. Now I’m suspicious. This is frustrating! I can think like Real Sherlock, have his feelings, and most of his reactions, but my memories are still mostly my own. It’s creating gaps and people are noticing._

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Harriet growled, “Never mind. I’ll find someone else.”

“What?! Wait just a moment!” John chased after him as Harriet headed back to the car, smart heels clicking on the floor, “Wait just a gods be damned moment! I’m _not_ using. Don’t you know a joke when you hear one? I’m just in a good mood today- or I _was_ until you showed up!”

Harriet turned around and gave John a withering glare, “Don’t be more pathetic than you already are. It’s revolting.”

John stared at his sister in shame as she slipped into her fancy sedan and drove off, the mirror reflecting the hurt he was trying to hide behind a blank façade.

_Is this how Real Harry feels? Do I make her feel as though she’s already too worthless to bother being sober?_

“Ignore him,” Sherlock’s voice spoke close to John’s ear and his arm slipped around his shoulders, “He’s a bastard. You’d tell me though, wouldn’t you?”

“If I were using?”

“Yes.”

“No,” John replied tersely. Sherlock drew away, but John spoke before he could, “I’d tell you if you asked, though.”

“Then I’ll just have to ask every day.”

“No. Don’t. It will… It will make it unbearable,” John replied, an itch stealing up his arm and curling in his stomach. _Is this what addiction feels like?_ “Just watch me like you have and ask when you _need_ to.”

“Okay. Yeah. Sure. Are you okay?”

“Just a bit… off. I think I’d rather be back in bed with you. Come on. We’ll find that primary crime scene on our own.”

Sherlock nodded and grinned at the challenge and John felt his blood boil with equal parts longing and pride at getting to show off for Sherlock for a change.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John walked out to the road, ignoring the cab with Harriet’s minion in it, and hailed a fresh one. The walk had given him time to do some research and he knew the address he needed by the time he climbed in. They headed to Norfolk in silence, John’s hand curled in Sherlock’s and a smile on his blogger’s face. They stopped at an Inn just outside of Norfolk and walked the remaining distance to Ridling Thorpe Manor only to find the gates wrapped in crime scene tape.

“As I suspected. Mrs. Cubitt _did_ kill herself, but it was triggered by something here. I suspect her husband’s murder. Come along, Sherlock. We need to find more of those letters if I’m ever to do a frequency analysis.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

They broke into the crime scene, Sherlock looking eager for some of the danger he loved so much. A quick pick of a lock got them into the house and they split up to search for info. Sherlock found the crime scene first- a spatter of blood on the floor showing where the homeowner had been headshot- and texted John who hurried after him, but there were no more dancing figures so they spread out once more. John found them this time and photographed them, but a call from Sherlock had him hurrying a few floors up to see yet another. Once they found a third pasted to the sundial in the greenhouse John decided he had enough to go on and started working on his phone.

“If that figure is an ‘E’ and that is an ‘A’…” John muttered.

“Anything I can do?” Sherlock asked.

“Be a dear and reward me later with sexual favors,” John quipped. Sherlock scowled, but John pressed a kiss to his cheek to sooth his temper, “Come on. We need to get in touch with the homeless network. We have a man to find and he’s on the run.”

An hour later John and Sherlock headed down a side street and spied a man around a corner huddling near a set of stairs and looking dejected. John strode towards him and stopped in front of him.

“Mr. Slaney, I presume?” John stated confidently.

“Aye, Mr. Watson, I presume?”

“The same, and my colleague… friend… _partner_ … Dr. Holmes.”

Sherlock blushed but didn’t let his guard down. Slaney, however, merely got slowly to his feet and gave them both a sad look.

“Elsie didn’t make it?”

“I think you know that.”

“I never meant… She was so…”

“You loved her,” John stated.

“Yes,” The man nodded.

“We’ll take your statement down at the station. If you come with us?”

The man nodded and followed them docilely back to the cab where he sat beside Sherlock because he was being protective… a state that John was surprised to find himself _very_ aroused by.

 _Does ‘my Sherlock’ feel that way about me? Does he get hard when I stand up for or protect him? Gods, I want him. Now that I know what happened I just want to take him home and have him, but there are a few unanswered questions. I_ need _to see this through. It will plague me and take away from celebrating with my charming blogger afterwards._

John reached out and gave Sherlock’s hand a squeeze, trying to communicate the intensity and complexity of his stampeding mind with a look. Sherlock was caught. His eyes focused on John’s and he stared as if transfixed, his pupils dilating and his breath speeding up.

“Don’t do that,” Sherlock whispered, pulling away, “I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

“Mmm, I like you that way,” John smirked.

Slaney gave them a sad look that Sherlock picked up on, giving John a scowl to show him that he disapproved of flirting in front of a man who had just lost someone he loved… no matter how guilty he actually was.

XXXXXXXXXXX

They stopped in the mortuary first and John was shocked to _finally_ find Lestrade! Shy and awkward, he stumbled around the morgue giving John furtive glances and blushing profusely whenever he spoke or so much as glanced his way. It made John unbearably awkward- he wanted to bolt out of the entire building- but a glance at Sherlock showed him giving Lestrade pitying glances.

“How’ve you been, Greg?” Sherlock asked gently, but only brought out more stammering and awkward mutters, “Meet anyone nice?”

“Not… not really,” Lestrade stammered, and glanced John’s way with a look of longing.

John felt nauseous. He wanted _Sherlock_ to look at him like that, not _Gavin_ … or whatever his name was. What he really wanted was to be back home in Baker Street.

Sgt Molly and DI Mycroft stepped into the room silently, but the DI headed over immediately and read the man his rights without cuffing him at the same time when John gave him a sign not to. Lestrade stepped up and pulled open a door, sliding out a table with a body bag on it.

“So this is our corpse,” Lestrade stated, pulling back the covering, “Mrs. Elsie Cubitt.”

“Slaney,” Slaney stated sadly, “It should have been Mrs. Elsie Slaney.”

“She feared you,” John stated plainly.

“She _loved_ me,” Slaney argued, reaching out a hand to touch her face. DI Mycroft shooed it away, “We were engaged. Then she found out about the Dancing Figures.”

“The code your gang in America used, no doubt,” John replied.

“We could paste them anywhere in the city and it just looked like artistic graffiti. We used them to plan our heists without any trail left _anywhere_. No electronic signature. No obvious physical evidence. Nothing to be traced back to us. No one knew the code except us. Pasting them up was even fast because we put them on paper first, switched up where they were posted. Everyone knew to go for a drive on Friday night around the territory and look for them. The date, time, location were all as plain as day. If it was going to rain we just posted them in a bus shelter. Easy.”

“Then Elsie solved the code,” John inserted to prompt him along.

“The one she solved was an order to bump off a fellow who was getting cold feet. The order itself was to scare him off, he saw it and tried to run; we just roughed him up a bit and told him to leave the state. She ran away from me in fear and it took me _ten years_ to track her down. By then she’d married. I tried to get her away from him, but she refused.”

John brought out the photos he’d printed up of the Dancing Figures and his written translations beneath them.

**elsie meet me at elridges bedsit i still love you i would never hurt you**

**you are still mrs slaney to me**

**elsie come back to me he doesnt deserve you**

**elsie prepare to meet your maker**

“I didn’t mean it,” Slaney sobbed, “I never meant it. I just wanted to scare her because she… she…”

“She rejected you,” John replied, and placed the code from the sundial down on top of Elsie’s corpse as well.

**WE ARE THROUGH**

“I went to their fucking mansion and I shot his sorry ass!” Slaney shouted angrily, “Then I went to Elsie’s room and told her to pack a bag and… and…”

“Back to your bedsit,” John prompted, “To convince her on your turf.”

“She cried and screamed so I handcuffed her to the bedpost-“

“That’s why it was broken!” Mycroft burst out. Everyone gave him a scathing look, “Sorry.”

“She broke out,” Slaney continued, “When I got back from buying some smokes to calm myself down with I found her… just dangling there… all hope gone from her eyes… I would have loved you forever Elsie! Forever!”

Mycroft cuffed him when he made a grab for Elsie’s body, intending on cradling her in his arms, and Sherlock pulled John towards the door with a decisive hand on his arm.

“It’s awful,” Sherlock whispered to him.

“Yes, he should have just moved on,” John snorted, “She obviously didn’t return his sentiment.”

They were in the parking garage now, and John was spouting off just as Sherlock would despite the fact that his inner self- his _real_ self- was wincing in horror at the words coming out of his mouth.

“This is precisely why I always say that sentiment isn’t an advantage,” John groused, “Ten years of his life wasted searching for a woman who didn’t even _want_ him.”

Beside him Sherlock was flushed with anger and getting more and more outraged.

“For the life of me I can’t _comprehend_ it. Why? Why follow after her? Why not just find another empty vessel to bury his genitals in?”

“Empty vess… seriously John? _Seriously_?!” Sherlock spun on him, angry enough to confront him in front of officers and a perp.

Then a flicker of alarm passed over his face just before something hard hit John in the side, propelling him across the parking lot and slamming him into a parked van. John’s heightened mind realized what had happened instantly. Mycroft and Molly had been lulled by the mans so-far complacent state. When John had instigated him –unintentionally, of course- he had pulled out of their loose grip, dropped his head, and plowed into Sherlock with the intent to do as much damage as possible.

Sherlock, of course, dragged him off and pinned him to the side of the van, snarling like an animal as soldier mode overrode his anger at John’s callous words. That was when the universe decided to be cruel to them all. A car (drunk driver, 34, at least two ASBOS, wife just left him and took the kids, one an infant and the other old enough not to need a car seat) swerved towards them and slammed into the opposite side of the car Sherlock and Slaney were propped against. John dodged instinctively out of the way and then felt a pang of agony as he saw the car propelled across the lot. Sherlock and Slaney were knocked to the ground and the parked car shoved on top of them.

John staggered upright, his mind screaming out all the other possible solutions that might have prevented _this moment_ \- up to and including keeping his sharp words to himself- as he ran towards the car shouting Sherlock’s name. Molly was on the ground with a concussion, having gotten knocked into a pillar, looking dazed and angry. Mycroft had avoided injury and was calling for an ambulance while kneeling beside the car that had trampled the man John _needed_ in order to live. John dropped to the ground beside him and looked beneath. Eyes met his, opalescent eyes filled with pain and just a bit of fear.

“I didn’t mean it,” John told him, not sure why that was so important now, “I didn’t mean it, Sherlock.”

“John,” Sherlock gasped, a trickle of blood running towards John from the vicinity of John’s head.

The eyes went blank, then slid shut, and John shouted Sherlock’s name in terror over and again right up until the moment Mycroft dragged him away so the crew could assess the situation, pry the van up, and haul the men into an ambulance to head to a hospital that had an A&E. John muscled his way into the ambulance and held Sherlock’s bleeding fingers the entire way to surgery before being left in a bland waiting room to stare at the pastel walls and hate the world.

He drifted through his Mind Palace, dredging up memories of Sherlock and John that were polar opposites of the memories he properly had of _his_ Sherlock and John. He now knew what it was like to be Sherlock Holmes. To be the man behind the deductions. To be the broken shell of a human being that Sherlock Holmes was. He knew why he was so caustic and bitter about life and love: because he was always convinced that he didn’t deserve either. Now he just had to get back to his own world where _his_ Sherlock was alive and healthy.

Or was he?

“Am I going mad?” John asked the air.

“I certainly hope not,” Harriet stated coldy, “It would be terribly inconvenient for me.”

“Go to hell.”

“Already there, thank you.”

“He thinks I don’t care about him.”

“I highly doubt that. He’s not as oblivious as you think.”

“He’s an idiot. They all are.”

“Yes, but he’s still not as oblivious as you think. Anyone with eyes could see that you two are…” Harriet made a disgusted face, “In love with each other.”

“Mm.”

“However, I’m not here to make myself nauseous, no matter how easy that would make my diet. I’ve word from Sherlock’s surgeons. You can go and see him now, I’ve pulled some strings to allow for the ‘family only’ nonsense. He is still in the danger zone, so try not to excite him… assuming he regains consciousness, that is.”

“Thank you.”

“Really?” Harriet snorted, “He’s making you _soft_.”

“Maybe it’s time I softened a little.”

Harriet snorted and rattled off the room number before strolling off as though she owned the world instead of just Great Britain. John stood and walked to the room while taking slow, even breaths. It didn’t brace him enough. Half of Sherlock’s gorgeous face was covered in thick bandages. His head was entirely covered in them. They’d shaved off his curls. Brain surgery. He’d had _brain_ surgery. Would he be the same Sherlock when he woke up? Would he be able to care for himself?

“Please,” John whispered, breaking down as he sank into a chair, “Please. I don’t care if I have to take care of you every day for the rest of our lives. Please. Don’t die. Don’t leave me. Please, Sherlock. Please don’t leave me. Please. Please.”

John laid his head down on the side of the mattress, sobbing brokenly as his world tilted on it’s side and the room spun miserably.

“Please, John,” Sherlock’s voice- barely recognizable as he choked on his tears- reached John’s ears through the bandages completely covering one side, “Please don’t leave me. Please. Please. I need you. Please.”

“Sh-l-ck…” John choked out around his painfully dry voice.

John dragged his un-bandaged eye open and it met a truly shocking sight. Sherlock’s perfect face, eyes swollen from crying, nose running, face flushed, eyes red-rimmed and wide with hope at the sight of John awake and responding to him.

 _I’m back. I’m back in my world again,_ John realized, _I’m me and Sherlock is Sherlock. And I was the one plowed over by a van._

“I… I’ll get… I’ll get a nurse…” Sherlock stammered, standing up on shaking legs and looking frantically for the call button.

“Sherlock,” John choked out, “I know.”

Sherlock looked up in confusion, “What? You know what?”

John tried to respond, tried to open his mouth and explain it all, but his throat felt painfully dry. Sherlock fumbled with some water on the bedside and helped him take a sip.

“Love you,” John whispered.

Sherlock paused, staring at him with a pained look on his face, “I… I…”

The nurse walked in and Sherlock shrank in on himself, but John smiled his twisted half-smile at him to let him know that it was fine. All fine. He understood.

 _I love you too, John._ Sherlock’s eyes whispered.

Oh, it was buried deep. Down beneath the protective layer he’d built up between himself and society, down beneath the layers of bullshit and pomp. It was nearly hidden, but John saw it nonetheless and it was beautiful because Sherlock had saved it all for him. John lay there, listening to the nurse explain the procedures he’d have to go through to get back to full health (skin grafts, rods in both tibia, the stint in his skull needed to be removed once the pressure was down) but in his mind he was back in their bedroom laughing and touching each other lazily.

_I took his virginity. He gave it to me. Now he’s sitting beside me staring at me with love in his eyes. Love and worry._

“It’s fine,” John stated, cutting off the doctor’s speech and squeezing Sherlock’s hand, “It’s fine. I _know_. It’s fine.”

“You said that earlier,” Sherlock noted, concern on his face, “What exactly is it you know?”

“You. I know you,” John replied, smiling at him like a love struck fool, “I know you love me. I know I love you. I know how to read you better now.”

“Read me?” Sherlock asked.

“Deduce you. I’m going to marry you.”

“Shouldn’t you have a ring when you say something like that?” Sherlock asked with a snort.

“White or yellow?”

“White or yellow what?” Sherlock asked, looking more concerned and glancing at the nurse. Apparently he was concerned about brain damage. It figured the man wouldn’t understand something like this.

“Gold,” John smiled, “For your ring. I’m not off my rocker, Sherlock.”

“White,” Sherlock decided, “But you look better in yellow.”

“I’ll cope. I want them to match and we both know you’re the gorgeous one… not that I love you for your looks. I don’t. They’re just a perk.”

Sherlock smiled, warm and honest in a way John hadn’t seen very often. So that was it. When they’d made love for the first time John had been so awkward, so uncomfortable, and Sherlock so confident.

_“John, you’ve often wondered what my sexual preferences are…” Sherlock started off._

_“No. No I haven’t,” John argued._

_“Yes you have. The fact is that I’m a demisexual.”_

_“A what now?”_

_“I have to be emotionally connected to someone in order to be aroused by them- in order to be aroused at all, frankly. Because of that I’ve led a very lonely existence. Now there is you, John, and I find myself… attached.”_

_“Attracted, you mean,” John replied uncomfortably._

_“I want us to be together, John. I realize you consider yourself heterosexual, but frankly I disagree. You’ve cleaved yourself very closely to me and there have been highly charged moments between us. Most people fall someplace on the Kinsey scale, you’ve heard of it?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Well it’s entirely possible that you’re a one rather than a zero.”_

_“Sherlock, I’m not sure…”_

_“I want you to stop thinking. Right now,” Sherlock ordered, and John marveled at the blank that his brain became, “I want you to focus on the emotional, because John. I am emotional. I hide it well to keep myself focused on the work, but they’re there. For you, they’re sharp and intense. Tell me honestly you do not feel the same.”_

_“I can’t.”_

_“Then I want you to broaden your mind, John. Open it. One night. Give me a chance to show you that we can be more than colleagues.”_

_John had stood up and walked away. Made tea. Paced the kitchen. Returned. Walked away again. Let his tea cool. Tossed it down the sink. Sat back down across from Sherlock._

_“One night,” John stated, “I say stop you do. If it doesn’t work out we don’t mention it again. Ever.”_

_“Perfect.”_

_Then Sherlock had taken him to bed and shown him the meaning of passion._


	4. Chapter 4

It took a full six months for John to recover completely. Four of those months were spent leaning on a cane, but he had weathered it with Sherlock by his side. This limp wasn’t psychosomatic so it took physical therapy to heal it this time. Sherlock was a pain in the arse, but he was _John’s_ pain in the arse. He alternated between charming and annoying at any given time. Their nights were spent with their own type of physical therapy, John slowly showing Sherlock the beauty of making love.

The man was sensitive physically in ways that he wasn’t emotionally. He would come apart in John’s arms, his eyes rolling in his head as he shook with pleasure. He was passionate in ways that John had never encountered with a woman, quite possibly because he was absolutely consumed with John. Now that John was aware of it, he saw Sherlock in a whole new light. He saw a man who could barely tear his eyes off of John, sometimes even during cases. He would glance at him and wait for those soft words of praise. John gave it with heartfelt enthusiasm.

Once John was able to walk down the isle without a limp they set the date for their marriage. Sherlock had a rather handsome engagement ring that he’d picked out himself; it was a thick silver band with a single blue stone to represent John’s eyes. John wore a similar band with Sherlock’s family crest on the flat top. Their wedding bands were white gold.

They wrote their own vows. It had been John’s suggestion and everyone had opposed it, pointing out that Sherlock was bound to humiliate him to the point of suicide. John had just smiled. When their wedding day rolled around John and Sherlock walked up the isle in matching white suits with their arms linked and John holding a cane just in case his leg got too sore. Sherlock’s vows were first. He’d insisted, stating that if everyone were right about his vows than he might as well get John to leave him _before_ his leg started aching from standing at the alter for ages.

“John,” Sherlock stated, nervously fiddling with- and stubbornly staring at- John’s fingers, “John Hamish Watson. You’ve been my friend, my lover, and soon- assuming I don’t alienate you with this speech- you’ll be my husband. I never expected this to happen. I never expected you to give me a chance. When I asked you to do so I expected laughter. I expected it to be the end of what had come to be my first and most important friendship. I am not a person to take leaps of faith, but the day I asked you to go to bed with me-“

A few people huffing in indignation or disgust interrupted Sherlock. John just snickered.

“-When I asked you to go to bed with me I took what many call a leap of faith. I termed it to you logically, of course. I negotiated with you and spelled out why it would be the next practical step in our relationship, but the fact remained that I was very much dependent on a wealth of statistics that I was not aware of. Were you capable of being aroused by a man?”

“Ah… Sherlock…” Mrs. Holmes hissed.

“-Were you homophobic?”

John snorted.

“-Would you throw up your arms in disgust and leave me before I had a chance to fully marvel in the presence of the one person in my life who has gone beyond tolerating me and dared to care about me? And even if all those were untrue… Could you love me?”

Sherlock raised his eyes to John’s, “Because I do love you. For all that I have considered myself a man of science, and such sentiment a weakness prone to lesser men, you- John Hamish Watson- are worth taking a leap for… Twice.”

John closed his eyes, choked up for a moment and unable to look at him without tearing up.

“John? Why are you doing that? Did I do it wrong?”

“No, no you daft… Come here,” John tugged Sherlock into a tight hug, ignoring the Reverend clearing his throat pointedly and all the people clapping.

“You haven’t said yours,” Sherlock argued stubbornly, “You have to say yours and _then_ we kiss. The Reverend was quite clear on that point.”

“I know. Shut up,” John laughed, stepping back and resuming their previous position. What followed were John’s vows… interrupted by John telling him to shut up repeatedly every time he took a breath to start in on him.

“Sherlock Holmes, I found you and lost you. You found me again and nearly lost me. In between we had a _hell_ of a lot of misunderstandings, but lately I’ve been calmer around you. You’ve asked me since I had my head smashed in by a van what has changed. You even suggested,” John snickered, “That you were solely responsible for my ‘good moods’. I’m sorry to disappoint, but you’re not… well, not entirely. After the van hit me I was unconscious for a long time. Many people say their lives flash before their eyes (shut up) and before you start listing them I know all the _scientific_ and medical reasons, but it wasn’t _my_ life or a bright light or anything of the sort that flashed before my eyes. It was the beginning of our relationship _from your perspective_. (Shut up, Sherlock.) I spent a day in your shoes, Sherlock Holmes. I spent a day inside that brilliant, overwhelming, mad mind of yours. I saw things through your eyes, I felt your emotions (shut up) I longed for you the way you did for me- all without knowing if I could keep you or not. I watched you get run over by a van. I watched you get rolled into surgery. Then I sat by your side and begged you not to die…”

John’s voice choked off. Sherlock was giving him an impatient look, clearly disagreeing with the utter nonsense pouring out of his mouth. John just smiled at him.

“I know it’s mad. I know it couldn’t have happened. I know that you’re likely desperate to tell me what _really_ happened inside my badly concussed head. Frankly, I don’t care. (Shut up, Sherlock…. No really. Shut up.) What I saw was enough to take me from uncertain about what might have been a one night thing, to wanting to marry you the second I opened my eyes. I will never ask you to slow down again. I won’t ask you why you blurted something out or bored. I won’t demand that you censor yourself. I can’t swear that I really and truly know what’s going on in your head, but I have a new perspective and it’s made me realize just how unique and beautiful you are in every way. Not just your brilliance and the exciting life you give me, but the cranky moods and the fingers in the fridge too. I love you for curing my limp- well, the first one- and for giving me a reason to _want_ to live. I cherish you, and I look forward to cherishing you for the rest of our lives.”

Sherlock blinked repeatedly and seemed frozen in place. Gone was the frustration, instead he was in his ‘computing’ stage. John watched in amusement as the Reverend continued the wedding ceremony while Sherlock stayed locked in his Mind Palace. He didn’t snap out of it until John leaned forward and captured his lips in a kiss.

“That’s it?” Sherlock asked.

“That’s it!” John laughed over the applause.

They walked back down the isle, tossing their boutonnieres to the crowd while the photographer snapped pictures. Confetti was thrown, drinks were had, and John and Sherlock stepped into the private jet Mycroft had loaned them as a wedding present.

“Where are we going for our sex holiday?” Sherlock asked as he paged through a book.

“It’s a honeymoon,” John chuckled.

Sherlock gave John a furious look, “But we’ll be having sex on it. _Tell me_ we’re having sex on our holiday!”

“Yes, Sherlock, yes, we’re having sex,” John laughed, typing away on his laptop. He had written out his experience months ago, but hadn’t posted it on his blog until now.

“Then why isn’t it a sex holiday? The point is to consummate our wedding, therefore…”

“Scotland for two days, New York for three- we’ve tickets to two Broadway plays from your parents- and Bermuda for three.”

Sherlock was silent a moment, “Bermuda?”

“Mycroft insisted. Apparently beaches are a necessity for sex holidays.”

“Sand is hardly romantic…”

“I know.”

“I’ll _burn._ ”

“You think _you’ve_ a dislike for sunlight, try spending some time in Afghanistan.”

“I knew I should have…”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll spend those three days fucking.”

“You’re going to make me _thank him_ later, aren’t you?” Sherlock asked in disgust.

“Mmm, no, but I _might_ concuss you.”

“So I can have this ridiculous experience you claimed to have had?”

“Love you,” John said teasingly.

Sherlock sighed, “Fine. I’ll thank him.”


End file.
